Waiting
by PeachDestroyer
Summary: "McMillan had spent a lot of his life waiting. He had waited to be taught to read while glancing up the high bookshelves with wide, curious eyes. He had waited eagerly and expectantly to be able to enter Weston College. He was still waiting to be included in the conversations of the adults. Growing up, he had waited – and he still did – for things to help him feel less alone."


**A short character study/backstory one-shot about McMillan because he needs more love.**

 **Hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

 **Waiting**

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McMillan had spent a lot of his life waiting.

He had waited to be taught to read while glancing up the high bookshelves with wide, curious eyes. He had waited eagerly and expectantly to be able to enter Weston College. He was still waiting to be included in the conversations of the adults.

Growing up, he had waited – and he still did – for things to help him feel less alone.

McMillan was a boy, a child, circled by adults. All his cousins were close to twenty when he had been born, and siblings he had none. In the area of his family's manor lived no children, and he was very rarely taken to social events – and even more seldom to those attended by other children.

Growing up, he had not been able to enter the world of children – and the adults weren't eager to spend their time with a child. His father, Lord McMillan, was always working, was always away, and Lady McMillan was a kind heart to all but her only child and son, arranging charity event after charity event. And his cousins, numerous as they were, barely noticed his existence, and if they did, they did it with displeasure.

So he had waited. After all, he had always told himself, everything was in constant change, was constantly turning and twisting and shifting and developing – and McMillan wondered how and when the gears of the world arranged themselves to open a path for him to escape the grey area in which he was wandering, to which he was confined since his birth.

When he had learned to read when he was five, a bit of said new path had opened. From that moment on, McMillan did not only have to stare at all the books in the manor's library anymore but read and explore them too. And so he spent his eternal wait reading and reading – and with every book he opened, he either visited new worlds or reimagined old. But the comfort the books brought to him was not the end, only the beginning.

When he grew older, he grew to be more and more aware of the world: Now, he understood why his father was always working, and why his cousins treated him with such scorn.

Lord McMillan had had the dream of his own company since he had been a child, and he had turned this dream into reality when he had become twenty-two. From idea to plan, from a little group to a big company – since its founding, his father's dream had flourished and grown from a sapling into a flower, big and bright and beautiful.

And its fragrance and nectar had soon attracted bees.

But Lord McMillan, happy with his work, happy in his work, did not notice the swarm which was waiting for him to pass – slowly, patiently.

He had only his work, they had thought.

He thought of only his work, they had assumed.

He would wither and we would pluck him, they had schemed. We would pluck him and take all he had as ours.

And the years had come and gone, and the bees had become more and more frantic – no heir would mean their victory, no heir would mean their triumph.

Then, Lord McMillan had met his Lady, and with their marriage and son's birth, the bees' long wait and plan had failed and crumbled.

And while they shot him angry looks, McMillan directed his gaze to everywhere else, expanded his reading, his exploring to the world. After all, if you could read a world formed on paper, why not the one right in front of you?

Subtle glances, whispered words, unconscious acts, blink-long expressions – McMillan learned to read and understand them all. He knew people but people did not know him and he was still on his path where he was "nothing," where was "merely a child," where was nothing was meant for his eyes and ears.

McMillan found out about Weston College when he was ten years old. It was the most famous and prestigious school for boys, for the most elite of all of London – and Lord McMillan's alma mater. And, one day, he hoped and wished and awaited, it would be young McMillan's too.

For three years he waited, for three years he prepared and trained his perception – and his first day at Weston was to be one of the happiest of his life.

For once, his father and mother had taken the day off to accompany him to school. And when they arrived, McMillan was overjoyed. He had read so much about Weston College in the past three years, knew every rule, knew every tradition, every secret and every detail, but in reality, everything was more impressive – like a book world having become reality. But from all the things, McMillan was impressed the most by the masses of boys his age, and he wondered if now he would find a place in the world, a true place which would just be his – if, finally, he would not feel so alone and lost anymore.

But the days passed – and then, the months, and McMillan still had not found any friends when the seasons shifted from colourful to white, from white to blooming.

Apparently, it was hard to adapt what you had learned from books and observation to the real world which was filled with people with their very own unique shades – and nearly nobody seemed to appreciate being boldly approached and lectured and pointed out. Apparently, it was practically impossible to find friends solely from the data he had gathered.

Apparently, you could never collect enough data when it came to humans with their complex personalities and traditions and oddities.

And so, for most of his first year of school, McMillan had done little more than observing and studying, doing what others wanted from him, and simply being there – but he had always observed and studied and done what others demanded and _had simply been there_. People always came to him when he was needed, but ignored him when they didn't.

The place had shifted, but everything else hadn't. He was still wandering through his grey area, not knowing how to get out, not knowing where to head and where to belong. But he never stopped, always kept on moving because, with all his might, he held on to his hope, held on to his wish and kept on living and trying.

And one day in May, McMillan saw a boy he had never seen before step on the prefects' lawn.

Shock filled the crowd around. The prefects arrived at the scene – and McMillan stopped and watched, curious.

It was nothing unusual for new students to step accidentally on the lawn as most students did not bother to read the school's rules properly before enrolling, but school had started so long ago and all first years were now so well-aware of what they could do and what they couldn't. And now, there was someone new again – someone new so late, the year had not many months left – and everything started again. The shock, the arrival, the punishment…

But to McMillan's surprise, the boy – Phantomhive he had heard – was not punished.

This had never happened before. The punishments had always varied but they had always been delivered – nobody had ever escaped from them.

And curiosity and oddness always attracted each other – and McMillan stepped towards the boy as boldly as always.

* * *

Apparently, all along, someone _had_ existed in this big, wide world who could appreciate McMillan's knowledge, his lectures – and he was overjoyed that his waiting had come to fruition, that he had found this person and the gears had shifted again in his favour.

Phantomhive was not very talkative, but McMillan did not mind. Phantomhive was a good listener which made him happy as nobody had ever really cared about what he had to say.

Phantomhive had no idea about Weston College but McMillan knew everything and was glad to have someone with whom he could share his knowledge.

But Phantomhive had enrolled so late. But Phantomhive had come as suddenly as Colett had gone.

But Phantomhive had arrived after Arden and Thewlis and Greenson and Hardy and Isaac had transferred from Scarlet Fox to Violet Wolf.

And he had heard the name "Phantomhive" before while he had watched, while he had listened.

McMillan's curiosity was like a fire and all these things paper and wood.

But… but…

Phantomhive was his friend – the first friend he had ever made, the only friend he might ever have – and from all the things he had learned, McMillan knew that it was not right to investigate a friend's life.

If Phantomhive wanted him to know, he would tell him – McMillan was certain of it.

They were friends, and McMillan offered Phantomhive his help when Cole had done him wrong.

They were still friends when the bees came.

They were friends and partners when Phantomhive was part of Blue House's cricket team and McMillan wasn't.

They were friends, friends, friends, friends…

McMillan had never been happier before; the gears had never turned so much before.

But Phantomhive had come so surprisingly, had come so suddenly – and just in the same way, he was gone.

The school year was not quite over but there were urgent matters forcing Phantomhive to go home early.

He had to return right after the Prefect 4 had been expelled. Right after Weston had tasted shadows which reflected in the new prefects' eyes and faces.

But still, Phantomhive was McMillan's friend and that was enough reason for him not to investigate. After all, if Phantomhive wanted him to know, he would tell him, would entrust him, would write him – just like McMillan had asked him to do when they departed.

With Phantomhive gone, McMillan was alone again – alone in his studies, alone in his observations and gatherings and tasks to fulfil.

But for a brief but precious time, McMillan had tasted how it felt not to _just be there_ but to be seen and heard.

And he was so excited for Phantomhive to return. So excited to tell him about his summer and more and more and always more things like friends did. So excited for so many things which might not happen at all.

But everything was constantly changing and turning, and everything had its time and place – and for it to come, you only had to wait.

And so he waited like he had always done. How he always would.


End file.
